


Pirouette

by flaming_muse



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel was spinning in circles.</p>
<p>set early within 5x18 (“The Back-Up Plan”), after Rachel meets with Mr. Rifkin but before Mr. Paulblatt arrives, with no spoilers beyond</p>
<p>Warnings: a few brief mentions of Finn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pirouette

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from my frustration at not being given enough text in the show about why Rachel was frustrated with “Funny Girl” so soon into her run and why episodic television might appeal to her over the repetition of stage work. This is a fic about that topic in Rachel’s POV with some somewhat tipsy but supportive Kurt and Blaine.

The loft was quiet when Rachel slid the door open, the only light coming from a dim lamp left on by the couch and the usual city glow filtering in through the windows. Kurt’s privacy curtain was open, and his white noise machine was silent; he wasn’t in bed. The apartment was empty. She was alone.

Rachel’s heart sank just a touch, but she wasn’t all that disappointed. Although it was nice to be greeted by the noisy bustle and warm hugs of her friends at the end of a tiring night at the theater, she also could appreciate coming home to silence and peace she could wrap around herself like a comforting blanket after singing her feelings raw on stage at each and every performance.

And alone or not, her routine was the same. She had her instrument to maintain, after all. She had to take care of herself. It didn’t really matter if anyone else was there.

Rachel stepped inside and pulled the heavy door shut behind her, dropping her bag on the table and putting the kettle on the burner to heat before retreating to her room. Pulling her own privacy curtain shut out of habit and the very real possibility that the apartment could go from empty to crowded in the blink of an eye, she changed out of her street clothes into loungewear, carefully folding her sweater and hanging up her skirt; she might be a Broadway star now, but she still had to make her clothes last. Kurt’s ability to find her discounts only went so far.

Padding on bare feet to the bathroom - not bothering to check on the water, since she knew from experience that it wouldn’t be ready - she drew her hair back into a loose ponytail and pushed her bangs out of the way with a soft headband. The bathroom light was harsh compared to that of her theater dressing room; she could see every blemish, every pore, every tight line at the corner of her mouth, every sign of fatigue and strain around her eyes. The exhaustion was to be expected with the schedule she kept - the life of a star was anything but easy, after all - but she still frowned at herself for a minute before dipping her head to wash away the remains of her makeup and the grime of the city.

Three pumps of cleanser, scrub, rinse, pat dry, two layers of moisturizer... it was all automatic, the smells of the products and the movements of her hands as familiar as the shape of her face beneath them. She could do it in her sleep now, and some nights after a long week she almost did.

The kettle was whistling right on time as she walked back to the kitchen, and she prepared herself a cup of the herbal tisane she’d read about in an interview with Laura Osnes. (It was important to keep up with her competition, after all.) It was bitter and strong and lingered in her throat night after night even after she brushed her teeth before bed, but if it was going to keep her vocal cords clear, she would suffer through it.

There wasn’t much she wouldn’t suffer through to succeed, after all.

With a long breath out through her nose, Rachel watched the mixture steep, turning the water a murky green-brown, then discarded the herbs in the trash and turned away from the counter. Her eyes flicked around the apartment and all of its empty seats. For once there was no one to step over or have to ask to move their feet so she could have a spot on the couch, too. There was no sound coming from the television that she had to ask her friends to lower so that she could compose herself without being disturbed by the loud volume. There was no impromptu sing-along at the piano she had to retreat from because she had to rest her voice.

Even with the entire apartment hers and only hers, though, she took a seat at her usual spot at the kitchen table and cupped the mug between her hands, waiting for the liquid to cool to a temperature that wouldn’t risk any damage to her throat. She was used to sitting at the table. The couch wouldn’t make the mixture taste any better.

Watching the steam curl up out of her cup to vanish in the air, Rachel thought back over her night. It had been a strong performance for the whole cast. The audience had given her an almost immediate full standing ovation at her curtain call, and she was certain she’d heard some tears during “Who Are You Now.” There had been fresh flowers in her dressing room before the show from her dads, and she’d had a visit backstage afterwards from a few Hollywood C-listers she didn’t really know except from seeing their faces on the glossy pages of the kinds of magazines she’d always dreamed of gracing. They’d been generous with their praise and had already Instagrammed selfies with her; she’d picked up twenty-three new followers on her own account just on the way home from the theater. She’d even walked past the bodega on the corner before the owner emptied out the old water from his flower buckets onto the sidewalk as he closed up, so for once she didn’t have to dance around rivers of foul liquid in her new shoes.

It had been a good night.

Rachel pressed her mouth flat and nodded to herself, breathing in the steam from her drink. Everything had gone well. There was nothing to complain about. There was no reason for her to feel empty or unhappy.

No, she was tired, but she was satisfied, or as satisfied as she ever was.

It had been a _good_ night, she reminded herself, just like so many almost identical good nights she’d had in _Funny Girl_ , and she tried to make herself bask in it instead of letting it just wash over her and fall away like that water sluicing down the pavement and draining into the gutter.

The front door rumbling open pulled Rachel out of her melancholy contemplation of her tisane, and she took a quick, careful sip to check its temperature as Kurt and Blaine tumbled inside, hand-in-hand.

“ - wasn’t flirting,” Blaine was insisting, walking backwards into the room. His steps were loose and graceful on the balls of his feet, like he was still dancing to some inner music. “He was just being nice.”

“And buying you drinks, and trying to get his hands on your ass,” Kurt replied with a laugh, yanking the door shut with a quick, strong jerk of his arm.

“He was being nice,” Blaine said again. Stepping closer, he tugged a little on Kurt’s hand and smiled up at him, warm and easy and a little happily tipsy to Rachel’s eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with nice.”

“ _Nice_ doesn’t include trying to grope you when it’s not me who is doing it, Blaine. He was flirting with you,” Kurt said. “Not that I can blame him.” His gaze darted from Blaine’s flushed, open face and down his body before landing on Rachel at the table, and he straightened up a little. He didn’t let go of Blaine’s hand, nor did the sparkle of alcohol and the night out fade from his eyes, but a bit of the looseness drained from his shoulders. “Rachel, would you please tell my very attractive but apparently naive fiancé that I am not upset but that a guy buying him drinks and telling him all about the views from his ‘amazing loft downtown’ - “ He set off the words with vague air quotes with his free hand. “ - means he was hitting on him.”

“Either that or he’s an interior designer,” Rachel said, “but given that you were at a club I’d go with flirting.” Besides, they were dressed in some of their tightest clothes to go out; she had to approve of them not giving up their own style in their version of club attire - a polo and bright pants for Blaine and a sleek shirt and jeans for Kurt - but she knew they’d both have gotten quite a bit of attention even without being over the top with their outfits.

“ _Thank_ you,” Kurt said smugly.

“You never notice people flirting with you, either,” Blaine told him with another unworried laugh. “Like that bartender last week.”

“Oh, I notice,” Kurt replied. “I just don’t care. I’m not there for _them_.”

Blaine made a warm, satisfied noise of agreement, and Rachel had to dip her eyes to her mug for a moment. She loved how happy they were, how they could flirt and smile and be so content together; they deserved it, and it was a wonderful contrast to how tense things had been for them a few months before. She was happy for them.

She missed having that kind of love so much that it choked her sometimes to look at the two of them being so focused on and at peace with each other, but she was still _happy_ for them. They were her friends.

Her tea was almost overwhelmingly bitter but had finally reached the right temperature, and with a grimace she made herself relax her throat and drink it in slow sips, letting it work its magic. She couldn’t rush it, but there was no need to linger, either. With each swallow it soothed her throat and grounded her back in the current needs of her body instead of the lingering sadness that threatened to rise in her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kurt reach out to brush something off of Blaine’s cheek and then rub it between his fingertips in distaste. “Wow, you really got hit with that glitter, huh?” he said.

“Me? Have you seen _your_ hair?” Blaine tousled Kurt’s coif in a way that would have made Rachel fear for dire retribution if she’d tried it, and a small shower of shimmering rainbow confetti floated down onto Kurt’s nose, his shoulders, and the floor.

“Ugh,” Kurt said, brushing off his wrinkling nose and batting Blaine’s hand away when he went to touch his hair again. “We’ll need a shower before we change. No glitter in bed. You know the rule.”

Blaine laughed again. “It was one time, Kurt.”

“And I’m still traumatized about where I found it the next morning.” Kurt ticked off his next points on his fingers. “No glitter, no sand, no poppy seed bagels, no crumbs.”

“I know, I know. I remember. And you know I won’t complain about a shower,” Blaine said with a husky undertone to his voice, leaning in toward Kurt for a weighty moment before catching Rachel’s eyes over Kurt’s shoulder. He slowly shifted his weight back onto his heels again, some of the light in his eyes fading. “Showers,” he corrected. “Separate ones.”

Rachel could see Kurt bite his lip, his shoulders dropping, and he tipped his head in what looked like resignation. “Right. You can go first,” he offered.

Blaine nodded and smoothed his hands down his own sides, like he was pulling himself back together. “I’ll get my things from your room.”

Rachel realized with a flash of clarity that if she hadn’t been home they would have shared that shower, brought all of that flirty, laughing, tipsy energy into the water, and if she didn’t want to imagine her friends naked together she was a little sad to have deprived them of that pleasure. They deserved it. They deserved everything good.

Still, she _didn’t_ want to imagine it or see it, and it was kind of hard to pretend she wasn’t hearing what she was hearing if she saw them disappear into the bathroom together. The secret of living with friends without being constantly embarrassed was plausible deniability, after all. Besides, the acoustics in the room were amazing, which was sublime when she was singing in the shower to warm up each morning and terrible if she was stuck in her room unable to avoid listening to her best friends moaning each other’s names.

She tucked her feet primly under her chair. No, she didn’t feel bad enough about depriving them of that time together to retreat to her own room. Besides, she was only halfway finished with her tisane, and to get its best results she had to drink it slowly; it would take her at least another seven minutes with this much of it left. She wasn’t going to rush. She had two shows the next day. She had to drink it properly, then go do her evening stretches. This was no time for her not to take care of herself.

Kurt sank heavily into the chair opposite Rachel as Blaine disappeared into Kurt’s bedroom. “How was your show tonight?” he asked, stretching out his legs under the table and dusting glitter off of his shoulder with a flick of his long fingers.

“Fine,” she replied. She took a sip of her tisane and felt its warmth spread down her throat yet again, driving back the emptiness that threatened to fill her with the question. “Good.”

Sliding down further, all loose limbs and graceful repose, Kurt tipped his head and looked at her. “Only good?”

“The house was full, and the audience was aware enough of what constitutes true talent that nobody walked out while I was singing and they all gave me a standing ovation at my curtain call,” she said with a shrug. “It was good.” She lifted her chin and made herself smile as Blaine passed by into the bathroom, though for some reason she felt like it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Rachel,” Kurt said softly, his brows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

“I’m drinking my tisane to keep my voice at its very best,” she said and took another sip in illustration. The taste didn’t get any less unpleasant halfway through the cup, but she tried to smile through it.

Kurt just watched her, clearly unconvinced, and she shook her head and dropped the act, not even sure how to put voice to her feelings.

She loved Fanny. She loved the show. She loved being on that stage - on Broadway! - every night and singing those songs, the ones that had been written on her heart since she was a little girl. This was her _dream_ , and she was living it. It was absolutely incredible.

The problem was - if it was actually a problem and not just reality she needed to face, and that was the real question - was that no matter how many times she took that stage and commanded her audience she couldn’t quite drown out with applause Mr. Rifkin’s insistence that this could be it for her. This role, this moment could be the height of her career, of her life. She had achieved her dream, and that could be it. He didn’t think she could do television or movies. He wasn’t sure about her in other roles. And he was a professional. This was what he did every day. Maybe... maybe he was right.

She could have already peaked, barely into her twenties.

Rachel was used to making her own way. She was used to people trying to close doors in her face. If someone told her no, she just planted herself in center stage and sang louder until they told her yes.

But if there was one thing Finn’s death had taught her, it was that sometimes it didn’t matter what her dreams were. Sometimes things didn’t work out the way she was certain they would.

It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

Just like how she hadn’t been able to manage NYADA and _Funny Girl_ at the same time, not with Carmen’s irrational insistence upon her following _all_ of the school’s rigid rules for its less successful students, maybe the reality of life was different than what she wanted. Maybe she couldn’t have everything. Maybe Mr. Rifkin was right, and this wasn’t the start of her amazing career. Maybe Fanny was actually it.

Maybe going on stage and coming home and washing her face and drinking her tisane and filling her humidifier and going to bed and getting up and doing it all over again night after night was it. Sure, she had her friends. Sure, she had the applause and admiration from the audience. But maybe this was it. Maybe this was all she would have.

Rachel took a shaky breath, her hands tight around the ceramic mug in front of her.

It wasn’t a bad life. She loved the show. She loved the songs. She loved the thrill of the stage.

But if Rachel Berry was born to play Fanny Brice, Fanny had never been _all_ Rachel wanted to be in her life.

It was hard to think about being like Topol, putting on the same wig and singing the same songs day in and day out for years, decades.

It was hard to feel like this could be the only life she’d ever live on stage. The only life she’d ever live at all, maybe.

“Rachel?” Kurt asked her, so gentle.

She had no idea how to explain it. She had everything she’d always said she wanted: her dream role on Broadway, her name in lights, fame, respect, gushing fans, and exceptional reviews. But every day she spoke the same lines, sang the same songs, traveled the exact same steps on the stage and the exact same emotional journey with no hope of growth or variation besides someone in the cast flubbing a line, and then every night she went home, changed her clothes, washed her face, drank her tisane, saw her friends, and went to bed. Monday night dinners and the occasional night out with friends or hot yoga class with Kurt did little to disrupt her routine. Night after night after night, it was all exactly the same.

Rachel had always dreamed of being a star, living life to its fullest as she soared to the highest and most glittering heights on stage and off, but instead she felt like a ballerina in a music box, perfectly posed but spinning in place to the exact same music every time the lid was opened and the stage lights shone on her, tucking herself away in her quiet box when they were shut off again.

Maybe if when she walked out of the theater she had this whole other exciting life full of new adventures and love waiting for her she’d feel differently... but she didn’t. She didn’t have that. She wasn’t even looking for it. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to want it, not anymore, not yet.

All she had was this.

All she could do was this pirouette.

“I feel like I’m going in circles,” she said finally. “Like all I do is the same thing every day.”

“That’s life on the stage,” Kurt replied. “The play doesn’t really change, not now that you’re out of previews.”

She nodded and had some more to drink before it was too cold to do her any good. “I know. And you know I love performing. It’s not just _Funny Girl_. It’s everything.”

Kurt watched her, his soft eyes losing some of their tipsy vagueness and his mouth tightening in sympathy. “You’re going in circles,” he repeated more thoughtfully, and she let out a breath in the realization that he _understood_.

She nodded again, looking down at her hands for a moment before meeting his eyes. “I am,” she said helplessly.

Kurt extended his hand to her across the table; it was warm against hers and shimmered in the light from its faint dusting of glitter. “Then we need to break you out of it.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said. “You know that.”

Nodding, Kurt gave her a sad, sideways smile. “I do know,” he said and squeezed her fingers. He licked his lower lip, looking almost hesitant for a second. “But you also know Finn wouldn’t want you to be spinning in circles like this, either.”

“I’m not doing it for him,” she insisted, the name not quite the same sharp cut to her heart that it used to be but still a touch on a bruise she knew would never fade. “Not that way. I’m not doing this on purpose at all, and I know he’d never want me to be holding back. He wouldn’t want me to hang onto his memory like an anchor. He’d want me to shine and enjoy every minute of my life. I know that.” She did know it. That truth burned as bright and steady as a sun inside of her, even if she wasn’t quite living up to its promise.

“Okay,” Kurt said. “But if you’re not doing it _for_ him, that doesn’t mean it’s not _because_ of him...”

“I know,” Rachel sighed out, and that was true, too. That bruise was still there. She hadn’t been able to draw that line in her life, not yet, not to put that time of her life behind her for good. Not to put _him_ behind her, always in her heart and on her skin but _finished_. The thought of it made her throat threaten to close up, and she made herself drink her tea and not give in. A breath, and then another, and she was okay again, or as okay as she ever was with a heart that just didn’t work the same way it used to, one that felt permanently broken. “I can’t help it. I’m just not ready.”

Kurt laid his other hand over hers, his voice kind. “You don’t have to be.”

She shook her head again, wishing it were easier, but it wasn’t. She couldn’t simply make herself want to grab for love right now. She wasn’t going to feel that way forever, but she did now. She didn’t want love, and if Mr. Rifkin was right and this was as far as her career could go then this was how she was going to feel, no matter how much she wanted not to. This was it. She might feel empty and lost in the endless repetition, but she didn’t have a choice. 

The bathroom door opened, a cloud of steam preceding Blaine into the kitchen. He came out in a pair of soft shorts and a t-shirt, rubbing a towel over his hair.

“The shower’s all yours, Kurt,” Blaine said, pausing when he emerged from under the towel and saw them holding hands. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Rachel said, pulling her hands back into her lap and summoning a smile for him.

Blaine’s eyes moved to Kurt’s face, and he only relaxed when Kurt nodded his agreement.

“Rachel’s just feeling stuck in a rut,” Kurt said. Rachel watched his eyes track down Blaine’s body, quietly taking in every inch of him, and she focused quickly back on Blaine, trying not to feel flustered and wistful from the possessiveness in Kurt’s look. It had nothing to do with her.

“Oh,” Blaine said, his normally already expressive face even more filled with sympathy from whatever he’d been drinking while he was out. “We should help with that. Wait, didn’t we get a flyer about a new farmers’ market we could check out this weekend? I put it in my pocket. Let me just comb my hair, and I’ll find it.”

“That wasn’t for a farmers’ market,” Kurt called after him as Blaine disappeared into the bathroom again. He dropped his hands to the table. “Well, he’ll figure it out soon enough. But he’s not wrong about us helping.”

“You can’t solve the problem, Kurt,” Rachel replied. She had another swallow of her drink, larger this time, as it was going cold. She set her mug down in front of her. “No one can.”

“Maybe not, but we can be here for you. We can surround you with our love until you’re ready to reach for your own.” Kurt’s smile was small but sure, his gaze unwavering.

Rachel aching heart eased in her chest at the simple, open way he always supported her. She might be spinning in perfect, stifling little circles, but at least she had him. She had someone on her side. Kurt was her best friend and greatest fan, especially now that Finn was gone. She needed it. A star always needed her close confidantes to keep her going. She’d have to be sure to mention him near the beginning of the acknowledgments when she wrote her memoir. “I love you,” she said in honest gratitude.

“I love you, too,” he replied.

“This isn’t for a farmers’ market,” Blaine said in confusion, wandering back into the room with his hair neat, a pile of clothes under his arm, and a bright pink piece of paper in his hand.

“No,” Kurt agreed with a fond laugh.

Blaine frowned at the paper some more. “I thought it said farm party, not foam party.”

Rising from his chair, Kurt glanced over Blaine’s shoulder at the flyer and then squeezed his arm with a gentle touch. “Flirting,” he said in a sing-song voice and then waved at them before going into the bathroom.

Blaine shook his head, folding the paper and putting it and his bundle of clothes on the table. He sat neatly in the chair Kurt had vacated.

“You look like you had a good night,” she said, heading off the question in his eyes before he could voice it and flicking at the glitter drifting onto the table from his discarded clothing.

“It was _great_. The music was fantastic, and Kurt was on fire on the dance floor.” Blaine’s expression went hazy with pleasure at the memory for a moment before turning more serious again. “Maybe you should come with us next time. We’ll get you out of that rut. We’ll dance you out of it. It’ll be perfect.”

Rachel hummed her agreement as she sipped her drink. It wasn’t a terrible idea, and she appreciated the thought.

Blaine edged the flyer toward her, his smile flashing to life again. “I heard about this great foam party on Saturday...”

Rachel couldn’t help but laugh, even though she knew going out with them wouldn’t be enough. One night out after the show wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t get her a new part in a new play, with new words to speak and new emotions to feel. It wouldn’t make her ready for love. It wouldn’t heal her heart and make her life whole.

But still, she thought as she turned over the idea in her head, it would be fun. Dancing and drinking with her two best gays would be good for her. It would set her heart pounding. It would give her more personal attention. It could make her feel like she was alive instead of just standing still.

It could be the kind of spark that she needed. If it wasn’t a full fire, if it wasn’t enough to consume her and fill her, well... at least it was better than nothing. She needed _something_. She needed somewhere to be pushing forward, even if forward was just out to flirt and dance with pretty boys who would never want to go home with her.

She had to find something. Some life. Some hope. Something more than what she had, because what she had wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a life. It was a perfect pirouette toward the stage and back toward her bed, night after night, and Rachel Berry did not stay in one place. She only went upwards.

She was a star, and stars kept moving in the sky.

“I’ll go,” she said firmly, with a definitive nod.

Blaine’s smile grew wide, and he leaned forward on his elbow and said, “Great! Now tell me about the front row tonight. Did they cry during ‘Who Are You Now’?”

He was as good of a listener as ever, nodding along as she told him all about the bald man who had been stone-faced through the whole first act but who had clutched his wife’s hand through that song.

And then Kurt walked through the kitchen wearing only a low-slung pair of pajama pants, his hair a damp mess on the top of his head. Blaine kept listening to her, more or less, but his bright eyes followed after Kurt as he gathered two bottles of water from the refrigerator and put her now-empty mug into the sink for her. She could see the heat rising in Blaine’s face, his expression darkening from open interest in her story to a new sort of focus. It wasn’t anything overt, more a tension in him than anything, but she could tell from Kurt’s pleased little smirk that he saw it, too.

Rachel couldn’t blame either of them for getting distracted. Her issues weren’t so much a crisis as a stifling state of being - so it wasn’t like they absolutely _needed_ to be fawning over her, as nice as it would be - and they’d been out all night, drinking and dancing. It had been like hours of foreplay. She knew she’d need her good ear plugs for that plausible deniability she so desperately needed to keep.

Besides, they loved each other. They were engaged. Of course they were attracted to each other. She knew all too well how attracted they were.

No, she thought, keeping her lonely heart from falling by sheer force of will, she wasn’t surprised by their distraction at all.

“I’ll put some water by your side of the bed for the morning,” Kurt said to Blaine, and there was a promise in his words Rachel didn’t quite understand.

“Thank you,” Blaine said, warm and loving and filled with an unspoken promise of his own.

Kurt walked behind Blaine’s chair, his free hand trailing slowly along Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine’s eyelids drooped lazily in response.

Rachel pushed back her own chair in a rush. She still had her stretching to do to keep herself limber. She could delay it to drink in their support, but she was _not_ going to stay and watch their so-sweet seduction of each other.

“Well!” she said brightly. “I’m going to bed!”

“Are you sure?” Kurt asked her, stopping behind Blaine and looking at her with some concern. “We can stay up with you if you need it. I think there’s still some cookie dough ice cream in the freezer.”

Rachel shook her head; she felt a tug of temptation for the sugar and the companionship, but the way Blaine was pressing his head back against Kurt’s stomach with a heavy-lidded look of pleasure made it clear that the offer was kind but not one she could accept without the risk of Blaine spending the whole time nuzzling at Kurt’s neck. “I have two shows tomorrow,” she said. “I need my sleep. Besides, I gave up all dairy last week for my vocal health, remember?”

“I remember coming home to all of _my_ yogurt being thrown out,” Kurt said, idly thumbing over Blaine’s shoulder in a way that made Rachel’s stomach clench with something unhappy and small, some cousin to jealousy.

It wasn’t that she wanted either of _them_. She just missed what they had, that easy love, that simple possessiveness, that knowledge that they could just touch each other and be together and love each other and have it be welcome. She missed it so much it made her very bones ache. She’d had it. She knew what it felt like to have someone who was _hers_ , who wouldn’t be distracted, whose loyalty wouldn’t be divided, whose love was all for her even when talking about something else entirely. She knew how happy she had been, all the way to the deepest core of her heart. She knew exactly how precious it was to be able to love someone like that - and they did, too - and she _missed_ it.

But she didn’t have it, and she couldn’t have it.

It weighed her down, that knowledge; it pressed against her chest and made it hard to draw a deep breath when she thought too much about it. She couldn’t have that kind of love. Not ever with Finn, and not now with anyone else.

All she could do was let her friends enjoy what they had together. All she could do for herself was focus on what _she_ had - her career, such as it was - and keep herself in the best shape possible to command that stage.

“I’m just going to fill up my humidifier, do my stretches, and go to bed,” she said, her smile pasted onto her mouth. “Good night!”

She felt their eyes on her in question as she spun on her toes and walked swiftly toward her room.

“Good night, Rachel,” Blaine called after her, a frown in his voice, but by the time she flicked on her white noise machine and returned to the kitchen clutching her humidifier’s reservoir they were tucked behind Kurt’s curtain, their murmurs turning into laughter and then a telling silence that she covered up with the rush of water in the sink.

She knew she was right not to have stopped them from having the evening they truly wanted. They didn’t want her; they wanted each other. Besides, she reminded herself as she watched the water pouring into the container, she had more to do before she could go to bed.

As soon as she was back in her room, she shut her own curtain with a cold, sad, trapped feeling in the pit of her stomach she was determined to ignore. She refused to give into it. She refused to let it slow her down.

She set the reservoir into the humidifier’s base with a practiced hand and made sure the settings were correct before turning it on; Santana wasn’t there, but after that one time she’d knocked - or possibly deliberately turned - the knob out of place while rummaging through Rachel’s things Rachel never took the chance that the humidity would be anything but perfect.

That settled, she set to brushing her hair smooth the same way she did every night, getting out any remaining tangles from being tucked under the wig before they became difficult knots. Her brush slid through her hair easily until the ends, and that’s where she focused her attention.

Rachel looked into the mirror as she worked, but not at herself at first. She took in the cold, high walls framing her, the dark sweep of the curtain, and the empty spaces all around, dwarfing her reflection. She looked small against the backdrop of her home. Alone. Contained. Hidden away. Insignificant.

Never insignificant, she thought sharply, sitting up straighter and squaring her jaw. She was Rachel Berry. She was a Broadway star. She was anything but insignificant.

Kurt’s low, throaty laugh carried across the apartment, filling her ears and echoing in her wounded heart.

Rachel brushed her hair a little harder, forcing the tangles free.

She couldn’t find a way to reach for the love she still needed, but even more than love right now she simply needed a _change_. She needed something different. She needed to break free from _this_ \- this life, this routine, this quiet cage. She loved _Funny Girl_ , but she needed more than the same fake, frozen life on stage and the same empty life off of it, day after day after day.

If she still wasn’t ready to put Finn fully behind her, that didn’t mean the world wasn’t still hers to conquer. She just had to figure out how. She might have to suffer through the repetition for a while, but she could find a way to do more, to reach new heights in new parts with new challenges and new journeys for her to take on stage.

Rachel set her brush down and met her eyes dead-on in the mirror, feeling weighed down but not yet close to defeated.

Maybe Mr. Rifkin was right about her career potential, but maybe he wasn’t. He knew about show business, but he didn’t know Rachel Berry. _She_ was the expert when it came to what she could do.

Rising to her feet, Rachel drew in a deep breath before bending into her first stretch, fully committed from the very beginning.

Her sore muscles protested, as they always did after a hard day, but not her heart.

She would simply have to be ready to grab for what she could get, whatever came her way. It wasn’t going to be love, but it would be something. Something would let the spark she was barely keeping alive inside of her some days burst into a roaring fire.

Rachel bent low, pushing her body as far as it would go and then trying to push that much more. She held her pose for a count of ten, then moved to the next one.

Yes, she might have to do the same thing for a while - walking the same steps, saying the same lines, and living the same dull days she’d been gliding through for months upon months - but she would find a way to break free of the beautiful but unfulfilling circle her life had become.

She might _feel_ stuck like that ballerina in her childhood music box, but she wouldn’t let herself stay that way.

She was Rachel Berry. She’d do whatever it took.

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder: I am spoiler-free! Thanks!


End file.
